


The Anthem of a Dead Man Walking

by EVVS



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Courtroom Drama, Crayons are involved, M/M, Marvel Universe, Not Canon Compliant, Prison, Suicide mention, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EVVS/pseuds/EVVS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m Clint,” he says again, knowing that he’s going to have to force this if he’s not going to go insane in here. He lasted this long, but knowing that there’s someone else? Someone else who he could talk with? No, he needs that right now. So badly. Someone who isn’t Tasha coming in to update him on the real world. Someone else who’ll help him make fun of the guards and maybe who’ll harmonize with him to Bohemian Rhapsody. He’s not looking for a new best friend, just someone who’ll commiserate. “I’m gonna call you John.”</p>
<p>There’s some movement. Sounds like someone’s head bumping the wall. “Why John?”</p>
<p>“Since you aren’t giving me your name to work with, you’re a John Doe to me, right? So I’ll just… call you John.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Anthem of a Dead Man Walking

**Author's Note:**

> This is just barely getting done in time for the deadline, which means I'm sending an extra special thank you shout out to my artist for this big bang, pariah-arts on tumblr, because honestly, this fic was barely going anywhere when we were assigned artists and it just finally came together last minute and I'm so glad that pariah was so flexible and that everything worked out!
> 
> Anyways, here's my labor of love, The Anthem of a Dead Man Walking.

The clicking of her heels is familiar even if not all that comforting at this point. It’s almost more exhausting to see her than it is to be left alone in here for hours on end with empty walls and nothing to do. They gave him crayons once when he asked sarcastically. He threw most of them back at the guard. (Managed to get one right in the guard’s ear, too.) A couple of those crayons are stuffed under his mattress right now, but he doesn’t have anything to color on, so not like they matter.

Natasha stands in front of his bars and stares in patiently. “Hey, Hawkguy.”

He snorts. Yep, it’s one of those days. So he’ll stay in the back, leaning up against the wall with his hands shoved under the waist of his pants, because it’s not like he has pockets. He watches the concrete at his feet as if he’ll see it shift if he stares long enough.

“Clint, I’ve only got twenty minutes with you. Don’t waste it like this.”

…he can’t waste it being pissed at her for pitying him, because he knows that’s what it is in her eyes; no matter how hard she tries to hide it, she pities him. Not like he doesn’t already feel pathetic enough, stripped down to zero worldly possessions, half the world against him, and for what? For a mistake? For something he had no control over? (Because he has a feeble mind, that’s why-)

“What’s new in the real world?” he asks, not even trying to keep the surrender from his voice because Tash knows he’s not happy with her and he’s not afraid to show it. Nothing to lose at this point.

There’s a pause, and this is when he looks up at her. She’s tired, he can tell, and it’s not like this is easy on her either. “The Avengers are catching even more hell lately. It’s almost a good thing you’re not working in the field anymore.”

Clint doesn’t snort indignantly. He wants to, but he doesn’t.

“I checked with Thor, Loki’s still on lockdown. Don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Now he does snort indignantly. “Sure, now that the damage is done, it’s fine.” Clint pushes off the wall finally and heads towards the bars that separate them. “Loki’s gone, so the world has gone back to being just peachy. No concerns at all, right?”

“Clint-“

“I’m sure every day goes by just like the last. Maybe it’s a little quieter without me out there, I’m sure that’s nice.” He’s damn tired, but his biting words won’t be held back. “Let’s pretend like it’s all fine and dandy. Like I’m not in a cell. Like we can’t find a way to get me out.” He smirks at her, now staring at her icily, and he loops his fingers around the bars and stretches his pinky out towards her. “After all,  _ nothing’s wrong _ .”

She just keeps acting like it’s not a big deal, and Clint isn’t sure if that pisses him off more or less because while he’s stuck in here for months on end, she’s dealing with Avengers backlash and Washington. He was free for almost eight months until someone decided to leak the information that he had been working under Loki, that lovely classified file, and suddenly he has to pay for a bunch of shit he didn’t do.

Whoever’s running SHIELD has really fucked up.

She runs a hand through her hair. “If it makes you feel any better, we know why your file leaked.” When his eyes refocus on her, she continues, “SHIELD was compromised. Dozens, if not hundreds of our agents were working for HYDRA in one way or another. Someone probably wanted to get you out of the way.”

Clint leans away from the bars temporarily, but his fingers stay hooked on the metal while this processes. He taps the metal twice before sighing, “Prison’ll do it.”

Natasha nods while wearing pursed lips. “Prison’ll do it.”

_ Fuck _ .

So now he’s out of the way of everyone’s bullshit. Laying his head down on death row nonetheless, what better way to get rid of someone. He’s just glad that the legislation behind the death penalty takes a while and that Murdock and Nelson are trying to at least stall the case long enough for it to become less relevant as the Avengers start to save face. (Clint’s wondering now if maybe they shouldn’t be trying to stall anymore. Just end it.)

“If it makes you feel any better, my files are out there now, too.” Clint watches her as she shrugs slightly. “Had to sacrifice a lot of things with SHIELD falling.”

“At least you’re not in prison.”

“New York was an extreme incident is the only difference. More public.” She seems to have withdrawn into herself, almost ashamed in a way that’s unfamiliar when it hangs on her skin. “I’m only free because that was years ago, and no one can confirm it aside from those files.”

“On the other hand-“ He pulls his fingers back within his cell and laces them together before stretching his arms high above his head. “-everyone saw me, so I can’t even find some kind of excuse to say it wasn’t me. Except that there was an otherworldly lunatic in my head. Which is a  _ totally _ logical reason to get out of a trial.”

“I know you’re ready to get the hell out one way or another, but this isn’t the way to act about it. Not when they’re looking for any kind of evidence-“

“Evidence that they won’t find.” He pulls one hand from behind his head and rubs it across his face; every hollowed crevice feels deeper than ever. “A magic scepter doesn’t exactly equal evidence, especially not evidence viable in court. A jury would never buy it.”

Her curls bounce as she shakes her head ever so slightly. “You just can’t give up yet.” Natasha leans her forehead against the bars before attempting to continue, “Nelson and Murdock-“

“Are working on it,” he finishes like it’s not the hundredth time he’s heard her say that same phrase. “I know, Nat. It’s just getting down to crunch time. Everyone wants this tied up so I’m not bad for press anymore. With SHIELD being gone, I’m probably even worse in the eyes of the public.” He steps back and does what he can to shake off the truth: he rolls his shoulders and closes his eyes for a while, hoping that somehow the worst of the world will just fade to black. “We’ve only got two more months, Tash. Not a lot of time to clear my name. Especially with the trial date being pushed forward to try and get this shit over with.” Trying to get his life over with. (Not like he doesn’t deserve it.)

Fingers closing around the bars, she taps at the metal. “Just keep your chin up, Clint. Things’ll change soon.” And he can feel her eyes all too intent on him as she adds softly, “I promise.”

And those heels click towards the distance that feels like an infinity away because she probably won’t be back for a few more days, which means a few more days all by his lonesome, and that’s not really what Clint wants right now. He wants her here. But he wants her here and telling him that everything’s over and he can go home and see Kate and Lucky again, but that seems so impossible.

It feels like he’s only getting out of here one way.

Death.

Clint backs away from the bars some more and takes a deep breath before counting it out until he can exhale again. He can breathe. He’s fine. He’s still alive for now. For today. For two more months. One month until trial. If convicted, they’ll push for him to be executed within the month. Maybe less than two months.

Hell, he’ll probably never see Barney again either.

Hey, he’s going to Hell for all this, he’ll just meet Barney down there. It’ll be a regular ol’ family reunion.

Clint crashes back onto his bed- if it could be called that. His cot. It’s supposed to be a bed, but when he’s lying on it, it might as well be as comfortable as the concrete floor. Considering he did save the city after helping to almost destroy it, you’d think he’d at least get a legitimate mattress. No. He doesn’t.

Whatever.

 

* * *

 

His ears are still sore, but at least they let him have his hearing aids, so he shouldn’t complain. Really, if Clint got creative, he could use them as weapons and maybe manage to take out the guard with some of the parts inside. But he’d have to get the damn thing stripped and taken apart first and then he wouldn’t be able to hear. After weighing the cost, he opted for being able to hear.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt his ears, especially after a long day of wearing them, so even after he rolls out of bed at whatever time he can only hope is in the morning hours, he doesn’t slip them in their usual place. Instead, he takes his time and paces the cell walls out, still six by eleven. Clint can’t reach the top of the cell, and he remembers what he said the first time he walked in here, back when he thought he was going to get out: “Wow, at least I get some high ceilings.”

The real tragedy is that he doesn’t have a bunk bed. No higher position. Just this bed that’s probably barely two feet off the ground is all the height he’s got in the world right now that isn’t just standing upright on his own damn feet.

So he stands on his bed and stretches, fingers barely touching the ceiling now that he’s got the little bit of extra clearance. It’s good, it’s some kind of reminder of something. Object permanence? That this whole place is permanent? He sure as hell isn’t reaching for Jesus or some shit.

He pulls his arms back down at his side and starts to roll his shoulders to get some of the tightness out. It’s hard to not be able to exercise, especially since his fingers are craving his bow right now, even if just so he can pull back the string and feel the release.

But nothing’s changing today. Nothing’s changed for the past months. The only thing that’s changed has been the scenery, but only on occasion. And that was just going from regular prison to court and then to the Raft until he could get to a real trial. And, tragically, he doesn’t even have roommates here. The whole circular room outside of his cell is empty except for him and his two lovely guards who are only there maybe half the time.

It’s been a few long, quiet months.

It almost feels quieter when he slips his hearing aids in because now he knows it’s not just because he’s deaf, but that it’s all because he’s tragically alone in this self-made mess. Just like everything else in his life.

Except he didn’t do this. Didn’t ask for this. Was doing his goddamn job. Got poked, not even stabbed, but  _ poked _ by that scepter thing and lost himself. Fuck it. Fuck everything.

“Fuck this,” he groans and drops back onto his bed.

“Yeah, well fuck you.”

Clint perks back up immediately. Because no one’s ever  _ responded _ .

He takes his hearing aids out. He stares at them for a second because either there’s someone else in this cellblock or he’s just lost his mind finally and it only took like three months for that to happen.

Clint takes a deep breath to steel himself and then puts his aids back in. “Who’s out there?” he asks slowly and makes sure his aids are turned all the way up.

There’s no sound for a long time, and Clint can’t even hear the other guy breathing and the room sounds just as silent as it was before. And Clint’s not convinced that the voice wasn’t just in his head.

He takes a breath because, yeah, it was in his head. Whatever. He turns his aids down a little bit until he hears, “Where the fuck were you last night?”

Turning his aids back up, he’s ninety percent sure that it’s not a voice in his head, which is incredibly reassuring because after only hearing Natasha’s voice for a few months. “I was sleeping last night,” he answers, really not knowing why that’s the kind of question someone would ask in prison because, well, it’s  _ prison _ . Not like Clint was out at Starbucks grabbing a dark roast coffee or some shit.

“Then why the fuck’re you surprised I’m here?”

Clint has to put together a timeline in his head. Sleep, no guy. Wake up, guy. So he had to be put in here during the night. When Clint had his hearing aids out. Dead to the world, unable to hear a damn thing.

“I’m deaf.”

There’s a long pause and a heavy sigh. “Then how…” Another sigh that sounds almost more like an agitated grumble. “Fuck it.”

“I- I took my hearing aids out to sleep.” Now he’s wondering how much chaos went down last night that it’s assumed he would’ve woken up. “Didn’t hear you come in, I guess.”

There’s a sharp breath. “I didn’t know there was anyone else in here.”

“Well, considering I’ve been in here for  _ quite _ a while, it’s even weirder to actually have someone in here.” He’s half tempted to stand at the bars and try to look into the cell to his right, but he’s not that curious. It’s not like they’re going anywhere any time soon. “I’m Clint, by the way.”

There’s no response.

Clint fidgets for a while. He’s not sure what he expects from this new guy; hell, he shouldn’t expect anything. He doesn’t know this guy, and this guy doesn’t know him. There’s no loyalty.

He doesn’t go to the bars of this cage, and instead he steps up onto his bed again and touches the ceiling, settles himself. There’s anticipation eating at his insides even though there shouldn’t be. He didn’t mind being alone for so long. Now it’s more frustrating knowing he’s not alone and that there’s someone who just doesn’t care enough to carry on a decent conversation with him.

He gets off his bunk and lands silently on the balls of his feet. Somehow this whole cell feels new. Clint’s not as alone anymore, even though he’s here in the silence. If he wants to sing Queen songs now, he won’t be singing to whoever’s probably watching him on the security cameras. But hey, he could be one of the most entertaining inmates on the Raft. Clint’s probably better to watch than some guy jacking off in another cell unit.

“I’m Clint,” he says again, knowing that he’s going to have to force this if he’s not going to go insane in here. He lasted this long, but knowing that there’s someone else? Someone else who he could talk with? No, he needs that right now. So badly. Someone who isn’t Tasha coming in to update him on the real world. Someone else who’ll help him make fun of the guards and maybe who’ll harmonize with him to Bohemian Rhapsody. He’s not looking for a new best friend, just someone who’ll commiserate. “I’m gonna call you John.”

There’s some movement. Sounds like someone’s head bumping the wall. “Why John?”

“Since you aren’t giving me your name to work with, you’re a John Doe to me, right? So I’ll just… call you John.”

There’s no argument, which almost makes Clint laugh right then and there because this guy, whoever he is, clearly doesn’t give a shit about Clint. Hell, maybe this new guy won’t be in here that long, maybe he’s got ties with the President or some shit and will be out of here before the end of the day.

If that’s the case, then Clint doesn’t have much time to spend with someone who might actually talk back. “How long’re you here for?” Clint asks, knowing very well he might not get a response, but it’s better to ask questions instead of just babbling.

There’s no sound aside from metal tapping, like a coin against a pinball machine while waiting for the next game.

“Any chance you have news from the outside?” It sounds more ominous than he means it, but what else is there to do but ask questions and pray for answers. “Like how Miley Cyrus has been lately? Or what the Kardashians have been up to?”

“Drake’s broke,” says John. “Did somethin’ with clothes.” He clears his throat. “The, uh, king of Wakanda got killed.”

Clint purses his lips. He traveled to Wakanda once, just for a quick trip with Fury. Something about a hero on the rise, but nothing came out of it. The country was nice, the people even nicer. Some were fearful of outsiders, but Clint remembers having good times with the scientists in the bed and breakfast he stayed in.

He doesn’t remember much about the king.

“Well that sucks.” Clint sucks in a deep breath and sits on his bed, leaning his back against the wall; the wall that John is on the other side of. “I mean the thing about the king, not Drake. He’s not even that good of a rapper.”

John’s quiet for a minute until he says, “I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s okay, Nicki Minaj is better.” Clint wishes he had music in here. Even elevator music might be okay in prison. Hell, throw on some bad 80’s stuff and he’d be just peachy. “Sorry for asking. It’s just that, well, I only get, uh, biased information. Only one of my friends comes to visit me. She never says much about pop culture.”

There’s some quiet for a little while before John asks, “Girlfriend?”

“Nah.” Clint scratches his stubbly chin; he’ll be allowed a razor tomorrow to shave under close supervision— apparently, there’s a suicide problem in his record, but he chalks that up to bad luck and a misunderstanding. “Best friend. Partner in crime.” He purses his lips and considers that choice of words in the given situation. “Not _ really _ my partner in crime. She’s the one who saved me, actually.”

The thought of adding “sort of” hangs in his mouth for a second, sitting there on his slightly parted, very cracked lips. Clint won’t add it on because Tasha’s done so much for him. She’s been here every week, and she’s been working her ass off to evidence with Nelson and Murdock. He owes Natasha too much at this point to be ungrateful.

“Sounds like a good friend.” There’s shifting on the other side of the wall, and Clint wishes he knew what he was supposed to be imagining. “I know what those are like.”

“Yeah? You got a partner in crime? Someone I should know about?” Clint laughs for about a second, but apparently his joke doesn’t make a whole lot of sense because he feels the need to clarify, “Y’know, because then I could, like, carry out evil crime things with whoever you worked with? It’s apparently a common thing in prisons. Like, we share stories about the people we worked with and suddenly I take on your mission or something.”

There’s silence from the other side and a vague, almost whispered, “ _ What? _ ”

Clint coughs. He’s probably wrecking all of his chances of having a friend in here. “I just… Never mind.”

A sigh comes from the other side of the wall. “You wouldn’t want my mission.”

He shifts uncomfortably, wondering if he should ask or not. He has no idea why this guy is in here. Could be a mass murderer.

Then again, Clint’s also a mass murderer. Who’s he to judge?

Somehow, that thought alone is enough to cause him to spiral. Whenever it happens, it only takes a second. Like his brain goes blank until he can’t see anything anymore.

Well, he can see, but everything is somehow background to… to that day. Those days. When his body was trapped in autopilot mode with only weapons in his hands and an empty head. And everyone always joked how he his life was just that of a living weapon.

Right now, he feels like it, watching his body go through the motions while sitting there. He knows very well he’s in a prison cell— _ his _ prison cell—and that his body is perfectly still, but his muscle memory is running wild as he feels like his body is actually moving, going through the motions of loosing dozens of arrows into SHIELD agents. His empty eyes watch the floor of the cell, but his mind is watching people—his friends—drop like flies with arrows in their chests, faces, and stomachs.

He’s struggling with the idea that his perfect aim is his greatest strength but also has killed so many innocents.

There goes another arrow, this one almost hitting Fury. The man who saved him. He almost killed Fury.

God, it’s a miracle that he managed to focus enough in that one moment to save Nick. He isn’t sure how he even did it. He still cries about it, how he managed to save Nick but no one else. Apparently, Nick Fury meant enough to Clint to focus all his energy into  _ missing a shot _ . And yet.

He’s surrounded by so many bodies and so much blood. The fletching of his arrows is like little trees that have grown out of corpses. Life out of death, after all. The circle of life. He’s seen  _ The Lion King _ too many times because suddenly his scene has shifted and the song is going through his head about the circle of life moving us all but he’s still staring at unmoving corpses.

Clint’s face is wet, he’s crying. He’s shaking and shivering, still sitting on the bed, back up against the wall that John’s on the other side of. Clint’s chest heaves because he didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of this.

He wants to be home watching Dog Cops and drinking coffee and petting his stupid dog. He wants to be having these goddamn flashbacks in his own home so he can call Tasha and apologize to her a thousand more times. He wants to be able to go visit Nick and remind himself that  _ he saved someone _ .

Clint’s just lucky Natasha isn’t dead.

His head’s foggy but lifting because his eyes are starting to see past the bodies to the floor again, and it’s like waking up from the worst nightmare but he’s not even waking up, he’s been awake the entire time, brain wrapped up in a daydream that’s anything but a dream.

It’s like waking up from Hell only to realize you’re one step away from walking back into Hell. The real thing. Because execution is just a few weeks away.

He’s still crying. Disgusting, heavy sobs are in his throat, choking him. He wishes he would just choke. Stop Natasha from having to watch him be executed.

“You okay?”

It’s John. It sounds like it’s the fourth or fifth time he’s asked. His voice is… worried? Scared?

Clint shifts and lays on his side now, feet near his pillow, head on the opposite side. “No.”

And of course, John doesn’t know what to say from there. It’s not like a hug can fix anything when they’re in opposite cells. And they just met, what twenty minutes ago? Hell, could’ve been hours ago, Clint has no idea how long he was drowning in his own head.

“’m sorry,” John mutters, probably not knowing what else to say. What else is there to say to a perfect stranger who just had a total breakdown on the other side of the wall in prison?

“It’s fine.” There are tear trails on his face. He hasn’t moved to wipe them away yet because he’s still shaking a little. Yet his voice is steadier than he expected. And he quietly slips his hearing aids out of his ears. He doesn’t want to hear any pity party, he gets enough of that from everyone else. So he stares at the walls and waits for the dead bodies to come back.

Because after all, they always do.

 

* * *

 

Clint’s starting to wonder what John looks like.

It’s been a couple days since they’ve been together here, but what else is there for a curious mind to think about?

He doesn’t care much about other things, like the weather or the trial or the engineering that somehow created an underwater prison. Those were the things he debated before he had a new thing to ponder.

People aren’t objects, etc., he knows all that, but it’s the concept of the thing. He hasn’t had another person to think about. He hasn’t had anything to new to think about in three months now, so what else is he supposed to do?

Clint’s stuck wondering why John’s even in here. He doesn’t know prison rules—well, he does, but he doesn’t know what the difference is with this kind of solitary confinement. He’s been in prison before, but that was for like a couple weeks, he got to play with half of the guards, and Fury had him out in no time flat. That was back when he was running heists in the circus. All in all, Clint’s just lucky he got out of that life and into this one.

Well, okay, maybe not the prison part of this life.

At the same time, there’s a lot of stuff he’s grateful for. Good friends, a found family, the dog. And Kate, god, he doesn’t appreciate her nearly enough. He’s just lucky this life has granted him the opportunity to help so many. If Clint were a god-fearing man, he’d be praying to get out of here safely and praying for his friends.

Instead, he’s being very, very quiet because he snored and kept John up all night. And John complained about it very rudely for about an hour before saying “shut the fuck up”, which was understandable if he’d been up all night courtesy of Clint.

It’s about two hours into Clint’s silence now, and he can’t even hear John breathing on the other side of the wall, so he’s wondering what that means. Clint can hear the guard at the door, but not John. He wonders if it’s his hearing aids.

He takes a deep breath and tries to think of all the things that could end a guy up in the Raft for. High treason, which totally sounds like something out of the middle ages but isn’t. Mass murder, obviously; that’s what Clint’s in here for, after all.

What if he’s a supervillain? What if he’s someone Clint’s fought before? With powers and the whole shitty shitty bang bang? He has no idea who this guy is. Oh god, what if it’s someone from his circus days? A brief flash of panic goes through Clint’s head that maybe it’s Kazi coming back to kill him except in prison this time, but then he remembers Kazi is dead as a doornail and isn’t coming back  _ ever _ .

Also, it doesn’t sound like John has an accent. Sounds very All-American, like someone from the heart of Brooklyn. Yeah, actually. Now that Clint thinks about it, he’s pretty sure that’s exactly where John’s accent is from.

John Doe, straight outta Brooklyn, living it up in the Raft prison.

Clint has no idea who this guy is. He groans loudly and tries to sink into the nonexistent bed some more so that he doesn’t have to keep thinking about this.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

Mouth snapping shut, Clint remembers that he’s supposed to be quiet.

There’s a sigh. “Sorry.”

Clint takes a deep breath, not realizing that he’d been holding it in and waiting for more. It takes him a couple minutes to realize why. He’s used to being told what to do. He was waiting to be called names or be bossed around. Waiting for something.

“It’s fine,” he says softly; he barely hears himself say it, but apparently it’s okay for John, who rolls over. Clint can hear things that happen on the other side of the wall. He wishes he could see things.

He’s also not sure why John’s in the cell  _ right next to him _ . The Raft isn’t exactly full to the brim last time Clint checked, which was back when he’d dropped a couple of super criminal psychos in here; he doesn’t even remember who. He just knows that there’s plenty of room here. Hell, there’s about six other cells in the room that’re empty, but instead of John being across the way or even a couple cells over—or around because, y’know, the cell is a big goddamn circle—John is right there next to Clint. His right-hand man if they were to sit at a dinner table.

Of course, dinner is slop that smells like stuff his dad barfed up after ten beers so.

Clint wishes he didn’t know that smell so intimately. Still, he can’t help what he got shoved into when he fell sometimes. Barney would help him up, clean him off, and remind him that it wasn’t his fault.

That doesn’t solve the long list of issues that came with that kind of a childhood.

There’s the soft sound of John snoring, but it’s like a cute puppy snoring. Maybe a cute puppy sleeping on a bed of flowers.

Clint wishes that John was a cute puppy laying in a bed of flowers.

Then, of course, he remembers, this is prison and that John’s in here for a reason and Clint’s in here for a reason and maybe John deserves this Ring of Hell. Maybe Clint deserves it just as much.

Prison leaves too much time for introspection.

John snuffles and snores. Clint folds his arms across his chest.

It’s just the way it is right now.

 

* * *

“Do you know  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ ?” asks Clint while tapping absently against the toilet in the back of the cell. Tapping against the mostly clean-er-ish parts, anyways.

“What’s that?”

Clint finds that he keeps asking about these things, and John never has any idea what he’s talking about. Clint always thought he lived under a rock himself, only ever watching Dog Cops and never actually paying attention to what celebrity was doing what. But at least he knows what good music is.

“John, buddy, pal, my guy,” Clint half-says and half-laughs, “you’re failing me so miserably right now, I could cry myself to sleep right here.” He continues to tap out the song on the toilet. The acoustics are better in the corner, and the sound of tapping on the bars is a little too Jailhouse Rock for him.

“If you cry, I’ll have to listen to it.”

“So we’ll both suffer, my friend.” Clint tsks and isn’t sure if John is the friend that Clint wanted in here.

He isn’t sure if he had some kind of expectations, but apparently he did because John is letting him down in all sorts of ways that Clint didn’t even know was possible. Not knowing classic music. Not dishing out “yo momma” jokes back at Clint. (John was actually offended by those jokes, which was weird.) And not to mention being awful at playing I Spy. It’s tragic.

Clint’s not sure what’s going on now because John is tapping music back. He’s tapping  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ right back.

“What the fuck, John?”

“Fuck you, what did I even do?” asks John, and Clint imagines him with a scowl and maybe the fluffy beginnings of a patchy sort of beard.

Clint groans. “You’re a dirty whore liar.”

“Shut your shitty mouth.” John’s voice sounds like a growl—what if he’s not even human? Animalistic. Mutant. Otherwise superpowered. Really, the possibilities are endless in this universe. And here, Clint thought he was dealing with someone like him.

“You clearly know  _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ !”

The tapping stops. There’s absolute silence on the other side of the wall. “Apparently, I know the—the song.” He sighs. “Sorry.”

“I forget things sometimes,” John mutters after a few minutes of stone-cold quiet because it’s not like Clint knew what to say to that. And he was a little angry about being lied to. After all, they’re in prison, what’s there to lie about? “I don’t even know how I know some of the shit that’s in my head.”

That tips something in Clint’s mind. Like tipping a domino into a long line of them and the clatter sounding like glass shattering in individual pieces. “Amnesia?” he asks vaguely, not sure why his brain is making connections. There’s something there, something softly spoken by his subconscious, but he’s not sure what that whisper is saying.

“Not… Not exactly.” John coughs. “It’s a long story.”

Clint chews on his bottom lip for a second, debating whether or not to say the classic “We’ve got time” or to just let it go like that and sit in the silence because it’s clearly not something John wants to talk about. Then he stands up off his bed and starts to stretch his arms above his head. “If you ever wanna tell me, I’m all ears.” Then he pauses, one arm reaching towards the ceiling. “Well, I’m mostly ears because, y’know, deaf and all.”

There’s no response from the other side of the wall, but Clint hears the rustling of what has to be blankets because he’s far too intimately in tune with the sound of his own bedding.

He has to assume that John’s trying to go to sleep again for the sake of trying to sleep through the misery of this caged life. It’s easier to sleep than to stay awake and stare out the bars at the same walls and the same empty cells and the same door that leads to freedom. Maybe leads to freedom, anyways.

Clint knows what John's going through right now: the first few weeks of captivity are difficult. He doesn't even know if John has ever been in prison before because what if coming to the Raft was just a transfer because he's more dangerous than they thought.

Nah. John doesn't seem dangerous, or at least he doesn't seem dangerous as far as Clint can tell, and Clint would like to think his perception of other people is pretty okay.

* * *

 

 

Maybe he's wrong after all.

He wakes up to a full-blown chaotic ruckus, a fight going on in the cell next door that's well-punctuated with the occasional grunt or groan of someone being punched— the kinds of sounds Clint knows very well because he's either causing them or eliciting them.

"Fuck off!"

It's John. They're trying to hurt John.

"Leave him the fuck alone!" Clint shouts as he practically throws himself at the bars. It's hopeless, he's not getting out, but maybe he can get their attention, draw some men on himself, get them away from John.       

Then Clint remembers, tragically, that no one ever takes him seriously, which is only reinforced when, y’know, none of the guards even blink in his direction. So John’s hollering and fighting for his life next door, and Clint can’t do a damn thing about it.

A couple of guards are literally  _ thrown _ out of the cell, which is a bit impressive, and Clint almost shrugs and decides, fuck it, John can handle this on his own. But then again, this cell? This tiny ass place? This is home right now. This is all they have.

And Clint knows he would defend this small bit of life with everything he has, which is nothing, but still, he would do it. He’s got a bed and his crayon under the mattress and running water and a blanket that doesn’t smell as bad as it could. It’s almost a territorial thing at this point, like a bear protecting a den. This place? This is Clint’s world.

So he knows why John’s screaming like he’s in pain when more guards crawl across his threshold and into his safe space. Because the bars are there to keep him in, but also, they keep everyone else out.

“Leave him alone!” bellows Clint, banging at his bars, debating taking the crayon he has and lodging it into one of the guard’s throats. Not killing any of them, obviously.

“Stand down, stand down,” utters one of the guards, the one who must be in charge; he gets up after being unceremoniously tossed against the wall. The web-like fractures of the concrete tell Clint that John isn’t someone to be fucked with lightly. “We’ll have to sedate him next time.”

“No!” And Clint doesn’t even know why he cries out, he just does. He wants to help John somehow. Desperately wants to help John.

It sounds like John is about ready to break down because his voice is broken and exhausted when he says, “No you fuckin’ won’t.” He’s panting and huffing, and Clint imagines a bloodied man in the cell next to him, slowly crumbling under the stress. “Nobody’s gonna fuckin’ touch me ‘til I talk with Steve.”

“We’ll have problems if anyone lays a damn finger on him,” hisses Clint. He bangs against the bars. “We’ll make your lives a living hell.”

The guards don’t say much, just mumble about talking to Fury. One of them does dare to go close enough to John’s cell to lock him back in there, but there’s some reassurance in that. They’ll leave John alone. For now, anyways.

After the doors slide shut and they’re left alone for once, Clint mutters, “I’m sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck and backs away from the bars. “I wish I could help.”

There’s a sigh and then the sound of blankets rustling. A body falling onto the bed. Exhausted, probably. Still, for some reason, John laughs. “Can’t do anythin’ in here. Can’t even live in peace.”

Clint feels sick. A sad kind of sick. Because they’re both in this. And neither of them can live in peace. “We could sleep in shifts. Make sure they don’t take you anywhere.”

“S’not worth it.” More blankets rustle. “I’ll just fight ‘em again.”

“Are you okay?”

“Bloody nose and a nasty shiner. Nothin’ a nap can’t fix.”

Clint processes this. Enhanced healing. He runs through a list of people he knows. None of them sound like heavy Brooklyn and have enhanced healing. Or at least none of them that he wouldn’t recognize immediately by their voice.

“Have they sedated you?” There’s a pause before John continues, “To take you out, I mean?”

“Nah,” Clint sighs as he goes to stand on his bed. Touches the ceiling. His back pops. “I go nice and quietly. We’re on death row, dontcha know? Why bother fighting when we already know what’s coming?”

 

* * *

Bitter is one word for it. He’s not enjoying how polite he has to be when being handcuffed because, yes, he is  _ technically _ dangerous despite how no one takes him seriously. They are very careful to keep small objects away from him, especially ones that could turn into lethal projectiles, because, at the end of the day, he’s killed a man with a collar stay before. The possibilities for weapons are astonishing when perfect aim is involved.

Clint behaves about as nicely as he can manage with only one or two less than savory comments, such as “How about I get handcuffed to the bed and we get started?” and “Want me to bend over next?”

Still, he’s going quietly because he gets to see Natasha and maybe Steve, if he’s lucky. For some reason, he’s actually looking forward to seeing his friends rather than letting the existential dread boil in his gut. Not like he’s hoping they’ve found a solution to his nearing death, just happy to see their faces again.

Although it’s weird to have Natasha sitting across the table from him like this is some kind of interrogation, and it’s even weirder to have Steve sulking in the corner like a bad cop gone more bad than usual. Or maybe just an alcoholic cop with a hangover. Clint’s used to alcoholics.

“Long time no see,” Clint laughs as he settles in and gets uncuffed. Rubbing his wrists, he looks to his friends. “How’s the real world?”

“Just as shitty as you remember it, Barton.”

Clint has to blink in surprise at Steve because when the fuck did this guy become a cynic. Like Natasha, sure, she’s always been a little pessimistic about the world. Who wouldn’t be after that kind of childhood? (And after all, Clint can relate.) But Steve? That’s like a big slap in the face. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”

“Steve,” Natasha says softly, but it almost sounds like a hiss, like she knows something more or knows that now’s not the time for this shit. She’s done the same thing to Clint a thousand times.

The Good Ol’ Captain goes back to sulking in his corner. This time, he’s quiet.

“Is the food still terrible?” asks Natasha, her eyes pretending to be kind but missing the mark just slightly.

“Salisbury steak is as good as it gets, but even then, too much gravy.” The words are coming out of his mouth while his brain is on autopilot, trying to figure out why she’s pretending to be nice, why he’s in an interrogation room instead of just letting Tasha into his cellblock, and why Steve’s even here. It wasn’t weird until now. “What’s going on out there?” His eyes flicker between the two, so he, more casually, adds, “What’s the story, morning glory?”

Natasha’s smarter than him, probably. She’s smarter than most of the men in her life, but what’s thrilling right now is that she knows something new. There’s new information in play, and she doesn’t want to tell him. Can’t tell him? No, just doesn’t want to. So what’s changed?

Time to stall. Get information.

His mouth is on autopilot as he’s talking: “It’d be nice to get a few more blankets? Living underwater can get kind of cold, I don’t know how fish do it.”

Meanwhile, in his brain: What changed? Murdock and Nelson have new information? The judge got changed again? More bad press for the Avengers? Any of these things mean certain doom at this point. There’s really nothing he can do other than tell another group of people, yet again, that he was brainwashed and told to do a god’s bidding against his will. Whether they believe him or not will be questionable, as it has been, which is why he’s going on fucking trial for this fucked up shit--

Still on autopilot: “Sorry I don’t have fun newsI got a roommate, actually. His name’s John, and I think he’s pretty fucked up. Like maybe even more fucked up than me. He can heal and--”

There could be some kind of brain scanner they could put him through, the kind of stuff that he’s been in to show head trauma. What if that could show how some brain lobe or part or other had been controlled by--

“You said his name’s  _ John _ ?” Steve interrupts.

There it is. Nothing even to do with the trial. Just something about this John guy.

Clint can’t even be the center of attention for five fucking seconds. “Yeah, I named him that ‘cause he didn’t wanna talk to me. John, like John Doe. He’s fucked up. He’s got powers, I’m just not sure what yet.”

“Has he mentioned what he’s in for?”

This? This is important. This is what Clint needed. He’s getting information now. About his fun cell block buddy. The guy who  _ doesn’t _ know Bohemian Rhapsody but also  _ knows _ Bohemian Rhapsody. The guy with amnesia problems.

Brainwashing.

“Nope, hasn’t really said anything. Haven’t even seen the guy’s face.” Clint knows they’re fishing for his intel, but now he’s got enough pieces to put this together. Or at least some of it.

Natasha looks calmed by this, but Steve almost seems more tense. Unsettled. If he were a mindreader, he’d probably be pretty pissed off that Clint knows more than he should. Or at least Clint hopes he knows more than he should right now.

“Are they still treating you well?” asks Natasha in an almost formal way, which means none of this is about Clint, just about what he knows.

“Me? Oh, I’m like a bug to them. I don’t even have good ears to listen in on prison gossip.” He licks his lips. “But they fought John yesterday while they were trying to take him out.”

Immediately, it’s like Steve snaps. He’s moving forward, his hands slam on the table, and his eyes turn wild.

Clint wants to pretend like, no, this doesn’t at all affect him, he was never traumatized, but that is one big fucking lie, and he shrinks back a bit, not used to such violence among friends and especially not in such close quarters.

“Steve.” And there’s Natasha, right when Clint needs her, to save his sorry ass, as per usual. She pushes Steve back with one hand and a look that’s both knowing and warning.

Oh, John isn’t anyone Clint would know. Steve’s the one who snapped, and as much as Nat can keep her cool, she’s too cool right now, in that almost detached way she hasn’t quite perfected. Because really, she does have her breaking points. This little fake family they’ve created? The Avengers? They’re her breaking point, and she isn’t breaking.

So it’s just Steve.

Who the fuck does Steve know that isn’t an Avenger?

The door opens, and one of Clint’s many friends, aka one of the guards, walks in with the cuffs. “Time’s up.”

Again, Clint goes quietly, now not looking at either of his actual friends. Keeps his hands still. The cuffs are on too tight again, and he knows his wrists will end up raw by the end of the walk back to his cell, but at least he’s going back with more than he came out with.

And maybe more of a mission.

 

* * *

When he got back, John was asleep, wrapped up in a way so that, with Clint’s horrible luck, his face was hidden.

Now that John’s slightly awake and post-workout (because push-ups are very vital for those occasional prison brawls), Clint says his first words since returning from his visit. “How do you know Steve Rogers?”

John’s still panting from a hundred and fifty push-ups as he asks, “ _ What _ ?”

Yeah, there’s something there. Honestly, Clint’s not sure why they don’t call him a detective. He’s totally on Jessica Jones’ level.

So he pushes it. “Captain Rogers. How do you know him?”

“How do  _ you _ know him?”

Confirmation.

Clint says nothing, just sits silently beside the toilet, tapping out some Nicki Minaj. He wonders if John knows any of her songs.

 

* * *

They don’t talk for a day, which is somehow weirdly quieter than when Clint was just alone in this hellish place. And it’s hard to know that the guy on the other side of this wall is thinking the exact same thing that he is: who the fuck is this guy?

Right now, Clint holds more cards, and he’s playing them close to his chest. He could easily pull shit about Steve out of his ass, but he has a really bad feeling that would piss John off, and he doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy to just take a chill pill. Hell, he could probably bash through the wall and throttle Clint if he wanted. So no, Clint won’t start telling John everything he knows about Steve.

This is too quiet.

That is, until, Clint is reminded that he’s being pulled out of his little safe haven again, this time with the intention of talking to Nelson and Murdock about the trial, about all this bullshit, and for the millionth time, about how he was brainwashed. The kind of brainwashing that causes flashbacks that seem more like a horror movie gone horribly wrong and not even shot with a  _ good _ first person camera.

The door opens, which has Clint checking his peripheral vision in a way that probably seems paranoid. “Ten minutes, Barton,” announces one of the familiar guards, but none of them wear name tags, so Clint just has to recognize their faces. It’s less than a second later that the door slams shut again.

He groans because he’d rather see Natasha any day of the week even if it was just so that she’d kick him in the face. Still, he sits up in bed with the intention of getting up and washing his face so he doesn’t look so washed out and war-torn. But he’s got ten minutes before he’s going anywhere so why go that far right now. It’s not like he has anything to style his hair with. Nor any real reason to style his hair.

“How come you keep on gettin’ visitors?” grumbles John quietly, which is followed by the sound of scratching, like scratching at a beard.

“Trial’s coming up soon, y’know?” He’s only got maybe a month and a half left. “Besides, I only get to talk to one friend and my lawyers, and even then, I only get information related to hero stuff. Because I’m  _ kind of _ a big deal.”

Apparently the  _ Anchorman _ quote is left alone because John doesn’t mention it.

Alright, it’s time for Clint to show his hand, at least a little bit.He can’t leave John in the dark here, especially because what if he dies? John’ll never know what happened to his bunk buddy, and that would be a real tragedy. Or at least Clint hopes that John would miss him. He knows he would miss John’s grouchy grumbling if he suddenly was taken to the electric chair.

So Clint lays out his cards: “Clint Barton, is my full name. Clinton Barton, actually, but my middle name is just an embarrassment so we won’t talk about it.”

Now John has more information. Now he asks, “Like Hawkeye? The Avenger?” 

Clint laughs. Clint laughs so hard. Because normally, no one has any fucking idea who he is. Even then, sometimes they think he’s Iron Fist. And then, John, whose name probably isn’t John, knows exactly who he is. Maybe not exactly, but close enough.

“Yeah, yeah, the Avenger,” he laughs. “That’s me. The one who, hopefully, hasn’t been in the news much.” 

“You have,” says John, his voice a little slower than it was a minute ago. “Your case is setting precedent for mine.” 

Clint’s stomach drops out, and his head tilts back and bangs against the wall. His chest is tight all of a sudden because this means, like always, he holds another life in his hands. 

He wants to laugh. And cry. Simultaneously. Because he knows he’s been walking on eggshells with the law, he’s barely got a case as is. 

Man kills tons of his coworkers while brainwashed. Man gets hit in the head and is suddenly un-brainwashed. With such hard science, obviously, there’s perfect proof that he was brainwashed and had no control over himself. But even then, with the verdict that he was brainwashed, that still doesn’t clean his hands of the blood he’s spilled. He’s still a killer. 

And it’s different when it’s his friends instead of just a mark, someone who could’ve deserved to be killed. 

And now— 

Now there’s someone else relying on this verdict. Someone else’s life is on death row right next to his, and, hey, maybe they could get their lethal injections together. 

Maybe Clint won’t die alone like his dad always said he would. 

It’s been maybe five minutes since anyone’s said anything and Clint hasn’t hardly noticed because now he’s carrying another man on his shoulders, and not even someone he knows. This complete and utter stranger is relying on whatever happens in his upcoming trial. 

“So I guess it’s a good thing we’re in here together,” sighs John, breaking the silence and sounding almost… almost relieved.

Clint laughs. It feels sick and gross coming out of his mouth, like vomit but in sound form. “Yeah,” he says, and it feels awful to even talk. Poison words are in his mouth, and it only gets worse when he adds, “Good thing we’ll be okay then, John.” 

John laughs. It’s quiet, like the laugh of a hard-working man after a long day. “I’m glad.” 

Clint would puke if he were sure John wouldn’t hear. Too bad he’s the deaf one.

 

* * *

Apparently, there’s something about their intertwined fates that has John opening up.

Which is especially good since Clint’ll need his help to make arguments. If their trials are both regarding brainwashing and the resulting mass murders, surely they can work together to come up with some ideas to assure a civilian jury that they’re fine now and that they don’t deserve the death penalty.

Nelson and Murdock were… surprised by Clint’s sudden renewal in energy about the case. Natasha had already been well-aware of Clint’s surrender to whatever destiny he would be subjected to, and she probably blamed it on his self-deprecating habits, but next time Clint saw her, he’d make sure she damn well knew he had to get out of the Raft alive.

Now Clint’s got Nelson and Murdock looking for his older medical records to show his soundness of mind, especially in his old SHIELD psych evals, back when he was doing better than he is post-Loki. There’ll still be points of alarm, like the shit with his dad, the shit with his criminal past, but there’s no signs of him enjoying killing. That’s what he really needs right now.

As for the emergence of John, it’s slow at first, like a flower unfolding as the day wanes on. He still never says his name, but he’ll talk about places he’s been. He says that Bucharest is beautiful in the spring, and how Russia is hellish any time of the year. Sometimes John talks about war but never specifies which one.

It’s almost getting frustrating that they lean towards the term of friends now, but John knows more about Clint than Clint does about John. And Clint misses having his cards tucked up against his chest, for his eyes only. Because now he’s playing against a dealer who isn’t a dealer but is really just a cheater. Kind of.

Clint thinks it’s all really stupid.

“God, what I would give for a cigarette,” groans John. He’s pacing, his bare feet loud against the concrete ground. “It’s been a fuckin’ month, you’d think they’d maybe let a guy have a smoke.”

“It’s bad for your lungs,” says Clint even though John has probably heard that a thousand times before; then, halfheartedly, he adds, “It’d be bad for my lungs, too.”

The pacing stops. It sounds more like he’s tapping his foot now. “Then maybe it’s better this way.”

“That’s- That’s why they don’t give anyone cigarettes in prison, John. Secondhand smoke. And because they can be used as a weapon if you’re smart and careful about it.”

John’s quiet for a long moment, as if contemplating, which is true because he asks, “How would you do it?”

Clint squints at the guard that’s standing by the door right now, probably listening to every word being said but not giving a shit. “I’d try to get it down his throat, but that has a lot of variables involved. Better idea would be to try to get it with the blankets by using the bedpost on the concrete. Wouldn’t be fast or easy. Technically, you could use the blanket if you can get it to light, but I’m not sure if this is nonflammable or not.”

“It’s nonflammable,” affirms the guard gruffly.

Clint shrugs. And then sighs because John can’t see him shrug. “Well, there’s that. Backup plan would be to aim for the throat. Secondary plan, get the door open, get the taser drawn, then get the cigarette to catch the taser, y’kno, pointy parts. Fight from there.”

“Do you really got perfect aim?”

This is all too common a question. The guards have even played little games with him, back when they trusted him. That one time, when they gave him crayons? He managed to flick four of them just right to unlock the main doorway out of the level. Needless to say, they never gave him crayons again. (But still, he’s got one more tucked under his mattress, just in case he needs it, just for emergencies.)

“I don’t necessarily have  _ perfect _ aim, but I have better eyes than most people, faster reflexes, and really, really good aim.”

“Which makes you a prime candidate for a brainwashin’ Nazi overlord.”

Clint flinches. “More like Asgardian god,” he corrects tiredly, but he’s not sure if John’ll know what that means necessarily. But then it clicks.

“Why Nazis?”

“‘Cause fuckin’ Nazis are everywhere, even now.”

Those last two words echo in Clint’s head, ringing like old broken church bells. His voice is maybe a little shakier than he’d like to admit when he asks, “John, what year were you born?”

Quiet. Always quiet. He’s a broken record when talking about wars and cursing. He pants loudly when he works out. He hollers when the guards get anywhere near his cell. John is not a quiet man unless it’s on purpose. Not anymore, anyways.

“John.”

“Stop callin’ me that,” he growls from the other side of the wall.

“Were- Were you in World War II?”

It’s so, so quiet.

“...yes.”

“With Steve Rogers?”

“Yeah.” He sounds defeated.

Clint swallows hard. He doesn’t know what he’s even dealing with anymore. Superstrength, enhanced healing, a brainwashing case. Clint doesn’t even want to ask and yet his mouth is forming the words, “Wh-what’s your name?”

“James Barnes.”

Shit.

Shit shit fuck shit.

Clint wishes the eternal mortal ache would just end now. He’s so tired of carrying shit. He’s so tired of the weight on his shoulders. And now he’s not even carrying another life, he’s carrying Steve Rogers’ best friend.

“Fuck.”

* * *

 

 

“I heard you killed a guy with a collar stay in Bed-Stuy.” 

Clint’s been quieter than John-- James lately because now everything’s on the table, all cards played for face value. Clint isn’t sure what he’s going to do. He keeps running through words in his head, the words he’ll say when he takes the stand at his own trial. It all sounds eloquent and every word is well thought out and pronounced perfectly. Of course, that’s never how anything works, so it won’t go that smoothly, it’ll be a mess.

Still, he gets out, “Yeah, yeah, I did.”

“Steve, uh, told me about you. When I heard that you’d be settin’ precedent for my case.” Pause. Quiet. “I got a lot of respect for you.”

He snaps out of his head after getting midway through his speech for the third time this morning. “What?”

James clears his throat. “From everythin’ I read, which is a lot ‘cause I wanted to know about the guy who might be able to save my life, you seem like a pretty stand-up guy. I was expectin’ more of a twit since, y’kno, who’s dumb enough to get their mind wiped away, but you aren’t what I thought you’d be.”

Clint rubs the back of his neck as he starts to move. Starts to stand up on his bed. Starts to reach up the ceiling. “I’m not what I thought I’d be either.”

James asks softly, “Weren’t expecting to be in prison?

“I was hoping to be a hero.” His back pops, and he’s so glad that he isn’t just talking to a wall anymore. Or to guards who don’t listen. Or just to himself.

“You kinda are a hero. You saved lots of people, Barton.”

He’s pretty sure that’s the first time James has ever said his name. Albeit it’s not his first name, but Clint’s pretty sure he likes the way James says his last name.

“Killed a lot of people in the process.”

“To protect a lot more people. Especially civilians.” James knocks on the bars. It’s not rhythmic or ordered, but it’s something to break up the echoing of the air conditioning and heating kicking on and off repeatedly within the walls. “I killed a lotta people too, back in the war. I mean, I didn’t know who I was shootin’ at most of the time. Coulda killed anybody without thinkin’ too much ‘cause it’s war. There’s always casualties.”

It’s weird to hear a different perspective on war. Steve doesn’t talk about it much; he doesn’t hardly talk about the war ever, or if he does, it’s only to say something about Bucky, who is apparently James, and there are so many things that Clint wasn’t planning on dealing with in his lifetime, and yet--

“It didn’t used to be like it is now. I saw how you work, you and Steve and e’rybody. Minimizing casualties. Damage control. It’s… It’s better than it was when I was in the good fight.”

Clint knows that it’s better. Thor’s good at holding buildings up until Tony can get the structural problems squared away, and Hulk’s doing less smashing and more saving. It’s getting so much better. And he’s glad to be a part of that: the kind of hero structure that emphasizes the  _ hero _ part.

“And really, I don’t wanna die,” says James, who now definitely goes by James, not John. (Hey, at least Clint was close.)

Clint doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“I got a lotta time left on earth, y’know? I killed a lot of people, yeah, but I didn’t want to. Didn’t mean to.” He taps on the wall. “I wanna be a part of this new age hero shit. Not the same as a- a war hero, not the guy who comes back with a fucked up head-”

Which causes Clint to immediately scoff because, well, fun fact: the new age hero stuff will get you a fucked up head too. 

“We’re more isolated cases.”

Again, Clint scoffs. “Tony’s got PTSD, Steve’s got guilt problems a mile long, Wanda’s brother died, Hulk is a thing, and I’m pretty sure Natasha is the only one who is okay because she’s been doing this since she was, like, five.”

James is quiet. Then, appropriately: “What the fuck?”

“You and me?” Clint laughs because he finds himself gesturing between the two of them as if James can see it. “We aren’t isolated incidents. Brainwashing? Yeah, sure. Fucked-up-ness? Not in the slightest.”

Clint continues softly, “What’s worse is that we shouldn’t even be the only ones in here.” He shakes his head and moves to sit on the floor, back against his bed. “Tony got brainwashed to build Ultron. By Wanda. In theory, they should both be in here. Not to mention Tasha probably killed more people than us combined.”

There’s a pause. Even James’ tapping stops. “Then why are we the only ones in here?”

Clint laughs. “Probably ‘cause they found you, needed a case, and decided I was the least valuable asset of the bunch.”

“So… you think you’re bitin’ the death sentence ‘cause they want me dead?”

With a shrug, he says, “At this point? Anything’s possible. And it’s not like anyone gives a shit what happens to me. I can bite the bullet for whatever they need, and it won’t have any effect on whatever SHIELD’s goddamn masterplan is.”

“I mean, I give a shit.”

Scoff. Roll eyes. At least one of these gestures is lost on James, tragically. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m on the chopping block to save your sorry ass.”

“Nah.” The tapping picks up again. Like a nervous tic. “I just give a shit about people. Good people especially.”

Again, Clint’s not sure what to do about that. No one’s ever really thought he was good before. Not his parents. Not his friends. Not even Kate some days.

And then there’s James, who he’s known for barely a month and a half, whose life depends on him, who thinks he’s a good person.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. He shakes his head. He misses his dog.

 

* * *

“And he’s okay?”

“Yeah, now that we’ve got it figured out, we’re fine.” Clint’s not sure why he’s using the plural “we” in there because of course, he himself has been fine the entire time, obviously, but they were only checking on James, not asking about him. “He’s fine,” Clint corrects.

Steve looks relieved, to say the least, but obviously, that’s the only reason he’s in here because he’s still sulking in what Clint has dubbed Steve’s Sulking Corner because this is the second time and it needed a name.

“What he and I really need is a goddamn case to get us out of the shithole SHIELD dropped us in.”

Natasha looks away at the mention of SHIELD; Clint’s pretty sure she knows that their employers screwed him over here, but at least she’s on his side. (Isn’t she?)

Nelson and Murdock, the loyal lawyers they are, God bless their sweet little lying hearts and their probably dead-in-the-water careers, are sitting across the table from Clint with files galore, like Clint could start a goddamn insurance agency with the amount of paperwork sitting right in front of him.

Murdock, the blind one, lays out paperwork that Clint can only hope will save his ass. “We’ve got Erik Selvig to corroborate your story with Loki, and Nick Fury is being helpful for once in his life by saying that he’ll testify that he saw Loki poke you with the scepter.”

Clint thinks that “poke” is a bit of a loose term, especially when that “poke” wiped away his willpower.

“Those two will help at least get you a little leverage with the jury in terms of putting together a cohesive, honest story about having a demigod playing around in your head,” Nelson adds on, and Clint can now tell why they work so well together. Nelson folds his hands together on top of the table that separates them. “The hardest part will be explaining how he told you to do things and how you had no bodily control.”

(He had enough bodily control to not kill the first few SHIELD agents he shot at. Just not enough control to save them all.)

“Which brings us to Natasha.”

She looks up and appears older to him now more than ever. Sure, Nat has the same kind of serum that James and Steve have, but not as much: less strength, less of the anti-aging, less of the healing. She isn’t immortal, and she just looks exhausted, like she’s been all around the world. And maybe she has, trying to find these files, trying to find people, trying to save him.

No wonder she’s his best friend.

“We run into the problem of me knocking you awake again, and there’s a possibility that the jury will think that I just talked you out of your murder spree.”

Well, when she calls it a murder spree, it sounds ninety times better. Clint runs a shackled hand through his hair and focuses on the one thing they need. “But we only need one person on the jury to think I’m innocent, right?”

Nelson exchanges a glance with Murdock, even though Murdock doesn’t glance back because congratulations on being blind. “Yeah, we’ll only need one dissenting opinion to get you released.”

That’s what he and James need. One person to say that maybe they had wars going on in their brains that no one else has seen, the kind of wars between mortals and gods, the kind that can’t be won alone. The kind that therapy will never be able to help.

“Let’s focus on that.” Clint looks at the paperwork. “We need enough evidence to show that I wasn’t in my right mind and that I didn’t want to do this.”

Murdock laughs, and a slender smile crawls onto his lips. “You could always just cry on the stand.”

Clint reaches for paperwork and doesn’t look up at that. In most of the scenarios in his head, he’s already crying at the stand.

 

* * *

 

 

“I think we stand a better chance now than we did last week at least,” says Clint as he’s walked back to his cell. “We’ve got more witnesses now. And only a week to go.”

John is panting and counting as he does his daily push-ups..

“My lawyers sound a little more confident now than they did before you got in here.” Before Clint started to actually give a shit about what happened. “So hopefully we stand a chance. I stand my trial, they use my precedent on your trial, and we both live as free men.” He’s not sure how realistic that idea is, but he needs to believe now more than ever.

The door to his cell slides open, and he walks in willingly. It almost reminds him of the circus, back when he’d help Barney and the other roadies walk the elephants back into their too small cages. And the door clatters shut behind him and locks with an ominous echo. While none of this is unfamiliar, it’s all very heavy now, knowing that he very soon may not even see the inside of a cell-- he might only be seeing the back of his eyelids.

The panting and counting stops. Well, the panting only half stops because John still has to catch his breath, which takes a few seconds. “When we’re outta here.” More panting. “When we’re free.” A cough because the Raft is all disgusting, dank air. “We should grab a drink.”

Clint isn’t sure how to read that. “Yeah, yeah, we should.” He’ll agree and figure out the rest of it later. The idea of getting a drink comes with the first step of both of them surviving their trials.

He does to lay down on his bed and maybe let his mind wander to that drink. He wonders what James Barnes looks like seventy years into the future. He’s clearly not ninety-some years old, but Clint wonders how he’s aged, or if he has at all. That serum does wonders for the skin, probably.

Maybe James will look right at home in a bar, throwing back whiskey or scotch or something like that and laughing at the bartender’s reused jokes. Or maybe he’ll look seventy years out of place and more awkward than a bull in a china shop.

Clint won’t know until they get out. And now he wants to know. “I could really use a martini right now,” he sighs as he crashes on his bed.

James laughs. It’s a nice laugh. “Like with a little olive in it and everythin’?”

“Oh yeah,” sighs Clint as he buries his face in his pillow. “I’ll order two just to start.”

Clint isn’t sure if there’s anything more that James says because he pulls his aids out and goes to sleep. It’s been too long of a day to not take a nap.

 

* * *

He’s glad they brought him a suit. He wishes it were black, but gray’ll do. Something to do with neutrality according to his legal team, which means he isn’t about to argue with them.

Clint fastens the cufflinks and straightens himself up in the little rusted mirror above the rusted sink with the rusted hardware. He’s glad they’re letting him get changed here rather than in a courthouse bathroom. Of course, the guards have guns now that they’ve given him cufflinks and collar stays because they’ve heard what he’s capable of with the right tools. Maybe they don’t believe it, but at least they know.

James has been quiet since Clint woke up this morning. He made no sounds when the suit was brought in. He didn’t comment when the guards started making fun of Clint’s naked body, which was sticks and stones, really, considering Clint’s father made fun of him for that and everything else he did when he was younger.

He needs about two more seconds to run a scenario in his head, just every last angle, calculating, planning. Clint kneels down at the side of his bed, pretending to pray, which the guards also mock in their snickering tones. He sneaks his hands under his mattress and pulls out the one crayon he has left-- the purple one-- and slips it into his sleeve. For luck? As a weapon? He’ll take anything he can get right now.

The door slides open, and Clint rises to his feet, sighing and looking around his cell and hoping to god he doesn’t come back. It’s the last day of the trial, his last chance to convince the jury, no, the  _ world _ , that he didn’t mean to kill all those people.

“Good luck,” says James just as Clint’s stepped out of his cell.

And he turns and looks, and this is the first good look he’s ever gotten of James Barnes.

Prior to now, he’d had a vague idea of what “Bucky” used to look like just based on the old pictures and footage from World War II. Roguishly charming. A grin that was always punctuated by a cigarette. The swagger that probably pulled in dozens of women every night in the dance hall.

This guy? Oh boy, this guy was a drop dead stud. In a murder-esque sort of way. The dark eyes haunted by almost a century unlived. Waning hope living in the corners of his face. Long hair that Clint kind of wanted to pull on.

Well  _ shit _ .

“Thanks,” says Clint to James through the bars. He wants to reach out and tell him that he’ll try his best, that it’ll all be okay, that they’ll make it out--

“Move along.” The guard behind Clint kicks his ankles to keep him walking towards the doorway to doom.

Glaring back, Clint can’t really do much, but he can give the guy an evil eye and a temporary distraction. He doesn’t even know why he does it, it’s almost a subconscious movement, but he lets the crayon slip into his palm, and he tosses it so that it silently lands in James’ cell.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Clint says, but he’s not sure which other side he means.

 

* * *

“I’d like to call Clint Barton to the stand.”

He’s not shaking, he’s perfectly fine. He’s also lying, but he’ll put his hand on a Bible in about ten seconds and swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. (After that, he won’t even be able to yell “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH” despite that line being one of his favorites in all of existence.)

At least Murdock has been calm and patient with him this entire time. Calmly practicing the questions. Reminding him that the opposition will have their turn at questions and that he’ll need to stay calm and answer each question in a well-composed way.

This is his goddamn life on the line, but at least he’s the last witness.

He goes to sit behind the little booth thingy that witnesses sit in, and Clint’s not thrilled to have the bailiff standing closer than he did to the other witnesses. He swears on the Bible despite not believing in God because juries probably aren’t too sympathetic to atheists.

“Mr. Barton, is it true that you were in the headquarters of the  Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate on the night of the Tesseract incident?” asks Murdock calmly, standing there in the most composed way with both hands folded over the top of his cane.

“Yes,” says Clint, knowing he needs to be as direct as possible here.

“And is it true that on that night, you interacted with the Asgardian god who goes by the name of Loki?”

Clint nods, looking down for a moment in shame that shouldn’t exist because it wasn’t his fault. He was just there doing his job. But he remembers what he was told and looks back up at the blind man and says, “Yes.”

“Can you tell the courtroom more about that interaction?”

The slowness of this court process is brutal, like pulling teeth. One slow question at a time, each getting a little more painful. Clint clears his throat. “I was assigned to watch over the research being done by the SHIELD team on the Tesseract. A team that included Dr. Erik Selvig.” He gestures to the man in the back of the courtroom who just gave his own testimony about his own brainwashing and consequential actions about ten minutes ago.

“Director Fury came in to check on the project, and I came down from my vantage point to see what he needed and to see if I could be relieved from my shift. About that time, the Tesseract opened a, uh,  _ door _ I guess and let Loki through and into the SHIELD headquarters.” Most of this was all rehearsed with Nelson and Murdock in the past week, so he knows well enough what to say in this part. “We tried to detain him, but that was unsuccessful, and he managed to touch both Dr. Selvig and I with his staff. Personally, I have no idea how magic works, but this kind of magic took away control of our bodies.”

Now Murdock clears his throat because Clint went off script. But he carries on calmly: “And you weren’t in command of your own bodily actions?”

Biting his tongue, Clint avoids reminding his lawyer that  _ he just said that _ . “Yes. I was forced to do whatever Loki asked of me, including shooting others and stealing SHIELD resources to further his goals.” Back on script. Forced words that he’s read a hundred times in the past week.

“Are you sure that you had no desire to kill anyone at any point during the three days that you were under Loki’s control?”

Clint shakes his head and looks at the jury, the wall of faces that judge him, the pond of people who get to determine the course of his life. “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone in my life. I was in the Circus of Crime when I was younger, but I turned us in because I realized we were hurting people. And I’ve killed people for SHIELD under the orders of my superiors, but at no point was I killing anyone because I wanted to, just because I had to.” He’s supposed to stop talking there, but he keeps going. “That’s why I liked the Avengers gig so much. We were always meant to be non-lethal and non. And it lets me use my trick arrows more, like my glue arrow and my boomerang arrow. So I don’t have to hurt anyone.”

He went off script, yeah, but that happens. Murdock can adapt and overcome.

“How did you come out of Loki’s control?” It sounds like Murdock’s reading off a teleprompter except for the fact that he’s blind so that’s impossible.

“Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow of the Avengers, she hit me really hard and knocked my head straight.” It sounds very technical, especially in a courtroom.

Nelson is putting his head on the table in front of him.

“Which at that point, you then became aware of your actions, is that correct?”

“Yes.” Clint really doesn’t remember what he was supposed to say anymore. “I mean, I was aware the entire time, but it was at that point that I gained control over myself again and realized exactly what had happened. While it was going on, it was like being on a rollercoaster and having no idea where we were going and no access to the controls.”

Murdock’s frustrated at this point, but that’s the end of their bit, the end of the scene. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

In which case the fun of asking questions gets passed on to the other party here, the state or whoever, Clint wasn’t really paying attention to that part. Now he’s off script, like a livewire.

“So you’re saying you had no control over what your body was doing?” asks the opposition’s lawyer.

He’s a tall man with longer-than-average slicked back hair and dark eyes. This is the first time Clint’s looked him in the eye, and his brain flashes to Loki for a second, just a split fucking second. Clint’s chest freezes, locks up, unable to breathe. Throat tight, practically choking on nothing but air and fear.

“Mr. Barton.”

There’s another flash, his father, Mr. Barton. He shoves that one down: hard. No time for that, never time for that, can’t deal with that.

“ _ Mr. Barton _ .”

That time, his voice was a little sharper, a little angrier, feeling very disrespected obviously.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Clint puts on his nice face, the one with the fake smile and the sad eyes. “What was your question again?”

“You had no control over your body, is that true?” asks the shady lawyer one more time, looking like she should probably have a handlebar mustache.

“Yessir.” He feels like he’s back in Iowa, obeying some foster parent with the highest of manners that he could muster. “We’ve already established that though, don’t you think?”

“And yet, despite having no control over your body, you were able to keep yourself from killing the Black Widow?”

Clint’s leg starts to twitch. “I don’t think I ever could kill her.”

A thin smile crawls across the Loki-like man’s face. “Because she’s your best friend and former lover? Because you had enough control not to kill her?”

Trying not to laugh out loud, Clint chuckles, “Because she could kick my ass any day of the week.”

Again, Nelson puts his head on the desk and Murdock simply shakes his head. If their careers aren’t already over just because they took on this case, Clint’s putting the nail in the coffin. Clint looks to the jury and briefly apologizes for his language, knowing he needs these people to find him likeable. (Clint did try to argue that, statistically, people who swear more often are more.

The Loki Lawyer looks annoyed and moves onto his next question because he can’t try to tear apart Nat’s reputation, not with all her files out for the world to see now. No one who has read both of their files would ever try to argue that Clint could take her down in hand-to-hand combat. Range weapons? Maybe. Not hand-to-hand, and she’d have to be up close and personal to knock him back into his right mind, so that thread is lost.

“And you managed to not kill Director Fury despite him being in the room with you when the so-called Loki took control of you. How did that happen?”

Taking a deep breath, Clint shrugs. “I’m not sure. He may have moved last second or Loki’s control may not have been definite at that point. My aim isn’t perfect. It’s just very, very good. Mistakes happen.”

“So you’re saying it’s a mistake that you  _ missed _ ?”

Clint squints. “No. I’m saying that in my line of work, missing isn’t normally a good thing, so it was technically a mistake. I’m  _ glad _ I missed him. If I had killed him or Nat, I’d never forgive myself. Hell, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for killing the agents I did. I wish I’d been able to fight him off better, but arrows only do so much.” He love arrows, but he knows when to recognize their shortcomings.

The snake-like lawyer is disgusted, probably expecting some snobby, overconfident douche or a dumb farm boy from the Midwest. There’s his problem: Clint is the kind of person that no one can predict as easily as that.

“Do you have any other questions?” asks Clint, and he tries not to sound like a dick, really. Still, he probably seems like a dick, but it’s unavoidable because it’s true, he is kind of a dick.

Maybe he does have more questions, maybe he doesn’t, but he seems flustered and angry. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

And  _ holy shit _ . Clint’s pretty sure he’s not going to die.

Which means-- and Clint might just be about ready to cry as he walks off the stand-- that maybe James is safe, too.

 

* * *

Clint’s been hanging around outside the courthouse all day with a box of cigarettes in one hand and Lucky on a leash in the other. And Lucky, of course, is sniffing at anyone and anything that gets close enough, so he keeps yanking Clint around, which is annoying as all hell, but then again, he’s a stupid mutt.

“Left this in my cell somehow.”

Clint knows that voice, and when he looks at its source, he’s surprised to see that the face is both familiar and unfamiliar. He’s only ever seen it once in person. The ancient eyes. Hopeful smile. Hair that looks even better in the sunlight. And he’s holding out a purple crayon.

Clint takes it and wonders why James held onto it this entire time. Still, something in him is glad to see it again, the stupid thing.

“Never told me you had a dog,” says James softly as he considers the mutt with a furrowed brow.

“His name’s Lucky,” Clint says. “He’s only got one eye, and he’s not all that smart.” He doesn’t know why he needs to say this when it’s obvious. Maybe it’s just because this is how he’s used to talking with James. “He’s a good dog though.”

“He’s probably happy to have you home,” comments James as he comes closer. Just before he kneels down to pet Lucky, Clint notices that James is actually pretty small. Maybe six whole inches shorter than him.

“He is. I’m the one who feeds him pizza.”

James laughs as he scratches Lucky behind the ear. It’s a laugh that sounds as good as freedom feels.

Clint rubs at the back of his neck as he watches James. This? This whole thing? It’s weird now. Different. He could literally reach out and touch the guy whereas a month ago, they didn’t know each other’s names, had never seen each other’s face.

“I, uh, grabbed you some cigarettes. Didn’t know if you were interested in them still or not but figured you’d want some sooner rather than later.” He holds the box out.

James stands back up and brushes off his jeans. He looks at the box for a second, almost contemplating the choice, before saying, “Nah. You said it’d be bad for you. Wouldn’t want that.”

Clint… Clint has no idea how to feel about that statement.

“What I am still interested in would be grabbin’ that drink with you.” He grins, and yeah, he’s still got that roguish charm from back in the war. “I still have that vice, at least.”

“It’d have to be a dog-friendly bar,” says Clint as he shoves the cigarettes in his back pocket. “Or if you want to finish walking Lucky with me, we could go out afterwards?”

James runs his hand through his hair and smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s finish his walk.”

Clint’s decided that freedom looks good on James.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking out my fic, feel free to hit me up on my tumblr @skylarkevanson
> 
> I will create a link somewhere in here soon for the art associated with this fic! Again, huge shout out to pariah-arts for being so wonderful of an artist to work with!


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